


Honesty

by LadyAscalon



Series: Bridging the Distance [2]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda, Historical RPF
Genre: Bisexual Male Character, Canon Era, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, Jealousy, Love Confessions, Love Letters, M/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pining, Polyamorous Character, Semi-Epistolary
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-28
Updated: 2020-09-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:47:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26152153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyAscalon/pseuds/LadyAscalon
Summary: Are you surprised that I am sentimental? I hardly suppose that, after tonight, I could shock you further. I am sorry, for your sake, to say I cannot regret the things I have done. But I shall endeavor in the future to be more gentle in my affections. You need not fear the courier. I would not overwhelm you again, my love. I wish only to convince you of my sincerity.
Relationships: Alexander Hamilton/John Laurens, background Alexander Hamilton/Elizabeth Schuyler
Series: Bridging the Distance [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1899109
Comments: 10
Kudos: 73





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel to "Clarity." Reading that first is recommended.

He writes the first letter with Laurens at his side, turning restlessly on his cot, never quite covered by the pitiful blanket. The wind slaps against the side of the tent, and some invisible rent in the canvas allows a thin stream of air to batter the flame of Hamilton’s candle.

He watches Laurens sleep. He wonders how he manages it. Ever since their—encounter? disagreement?—in the earlier evening Hamilton has been electrified, buzzing with anxiety, with plans, with hope. He will make Laurens believe him, even if he has so far resisted. Hamilton’s real strength, as everyone knows, lies in his writing. And while his voice made fade from Laurens’s memory, a letter may be kept for ever. A letter may be read, and re-read, its words and its penmanship analyzed for hints of deeper meaning. 

He writes:

_My dearest, Laurens,_

_At this moment you are no doubt at war in your mind, not sure whether to despair of me and my petty trickery or be grateful for my thorough attentions. Be at ease, my friend: it is easier to be grateful._

_The flame of my candle is hassled constantly; our home is intruded by a twisting winter wind. Beside me, you too are twisting and turning, though I do not think you wake. Do you seek to escape the flickering light or to find some warmth in your threadbare blankets? If I thought you would allow it I would drop my pen to soothe you at once. There is room enough on that cot for two in close quarters. I would shield you from the light, I would keep you warm. If you would allow me, Laurens, there is very little I would not do for you._

_Where are you as you read this? How soon will my stowaway be discovered? Are you en-route, perhaps in Philadelphia? Are you close enough to return to me? If the words in this letter could convince you to do so, my dear, I would be hard-pressed to advise you otherwise. But steady, for your black project is a worthy one, and there is no man more qualified than you to pursue it. Go on from Philadelphia, Laurens, but know that I feel the pull of distance with every step._

_Or perhaps I have remained undetected yet until Charles town. I confess—I do not know the climate so well, but I imagine that you read in the crush of the Carolinian heat. Though you may—no, I will insist, for your health— must forget the bite of the cold that plagues us tonight, pray do not forget the pledge I made to you just a few short hours ago. I am not confused, my heart. I have perfect clarity. _

_The ghost of your touch haunts me. Were it not for the candle’s cough I would suspect the chill was that of a lost pleasure. I have loved you for a long time. You lay claim to my heart from the moment we met. I cannot describe the feeling other than to say that nothing in my life had seemed as right as the moment you first took my hand. How few weeks it was for you to become my Laurens, and I, your Hamilton! Our days and nights at Valley Forge had the quality of a dream, the harsh bite of our circumstances tempered by the unparalleled companionship we found within them._

_Are you surprised that I am sentimental? I hardly suppose that, after tonight, I could shock you further. I am sorry, for your sake, to say I cannot regret the things I have done. But I shall endeavor in the future to be more gentle in my affections. You need not fear the courier. I would not overwhelm you again, my love. I wish only to convince you of my sincerity._

_Take care, John. Though you have not yet left my side, I already long for your return._

_Yrs affectionately.  
Alexander_

Although it is his habit to make a copy of every letter he sends, for his personal reference, in this case he refrains. It is a singularly unique document. He knows it in his heart.

Signed and sealed, he secrets it under his pillow and lies awake for some time more, heart racing, eyes drawn inevitably to Laurens: finally settled on his side, face relaxed, as tired and beautiful as Hamilton has ever seen him. 

In the morning, he waits until the command tent is emptied then sneaks the letter into an unattended mailbag bound for Charleston.

On Friday, Laurens leaves. It is late in the morning. He shakes hands with General Washington, with Meade, with Tilghman, with Harrison. He reaches out a hand to Hamilton but has the good grace to go easily when Hamilton uses the leverage to yank him into a hug. 

Hamilton holds him close. He tucks his chin over Laurens’s shoulder, breathes in his scent. Tries to memorize the lines of his body, the way his hands feel against his back. He pulls away after just a little too long, doesn’t even try to offer a smile. Laurens doesn’t either. They would both be insulted by the pretense.

Laurens mounts his horse.

“Good luck, my friend,” Hamilton says.

“God willing. Be safe, Hamilton.”

Isn’t there a story about a crimson thread? A cord that connects the hand of the lover to his beloved, no matter how far away? That may tangle but never break? Perhaps that is why Hamilton’s fingers ache, stretched out toward Laurens’s retreating shadow, a hurt that doesn’t subside when the treeline swallows him whole.

He receives two letters from Laurens en-route to Charleston. The first, from Philadelphia, is utterly innocent of the knowledge that Hamilton’s stowaway letter is sitting on a wagon only a few meters from him at any given time. He reports travel unmolested by the British and relatively unhampered by the weather.

The second is from Virginia:

_My dear boy, I can blame only myself for my surprise, when, upon sorting out the mail bags to determine what correspondence was intended for Richmond, the courier came upon an envelope with my name on it. Imagine, Hamilton! A letter for me from New York, already. Would you credit it?_

_I have decided to take your advice in-part: I am grateful that you thought of sending me a letter before I left, that I may not have to wait until I had been some days in Charles town before hearing from you. The disadvantage of this approach, of course, is that you can tell me nothing that I do not already know. I allow, though, that you have tried._

_Please, do not take my disbelief as an insult, my friend. Your sentimental nature does you credit; it is only that you have misinterpreted your sentiments in the haze that the unreality of war can cast over a man's life. I said it before, I will say it again, though you may grow tired of hearing it. It is to your benefit. I would not change you, Hamilton. My only wish is that my absence will speed your better understanding of what truth lies in your heart._

_Enough of that, now. I write in twilight and there is no sense in stealing a candle away with so little left to say. I trust that you received my letter of the April 4, sent from Philadelphia. We have since narrowly avoided British detachments twice, thanks entirely to our scouts. The weather, regrettably, has not been so fortuitous and I write now under meager shelter from a storm of wet ice. You imagine that South Carolina will be warm; in truth we are riding into the end of a rainy winter. Chilly mud is what awaits us in Charles town. Pray do not be too jealous._

_Give my love to all in camp. Tell Meade I am discovered to have accidentally absconded with his particular inkwell and do not intend to return it. Write soon with news of your accomplishments, or write soon with news of anything else. Above all: write soon._

_Yours ever,  
John Laurens_

Hamilton remains undeterred by Laurens's disbelief. He knows the man's stubborn soul. He had never expected to convince him at once. And if it is a campaign that is needed, then a campaign will be waged.

He writes:

_Cold in my professions, warm in my friendships, I wish, my Dear Laurens, it might be in my power, by action rather than words, to convince you that I love you. I shall only tell you that ’till you bade us Adieu, I hardly knew the value you had taught my heart to set upon you…_

It is a long year. Within weeks of arriving in the south Laurens gets both himself and his horse shot. His arm is wounded, his horse is dead. He recounts this in a letter written with his weak hand and Hamilton cherishes every chicken-scratched, ink blotted page. He writes immediately in return to threaten a punishment most severe if Laurens even considers catching an infection.

As is often the case in wartime, their intentions are better than their realities allow. Hamilton writes—not a letter a day, but a letter every fortnight, at least. He tries to take seriously his first promise to be gentle. Not every letter is a love letter, although all are filled with love.

Some, of course, _are_ love letters. He cannot help himself. He tries to keep them short, though, for fear of being overwhelming. He tucks them into envelopes with other, proper letters and sends them, sometimes three at a time. He writes them as they occur to him, snippets of emotion, of needs not met and wants unattainable.

_When I awoke this morning it was to a jolt, finding my bed to be empty though you had certainly been there only seconds before. I wonder if you woke this morning to see the ghost of me slipping from your side. I am sorry, if so. It was never my intention to leave you. How could I even try, with your sweet self pressed so close as to make us barely distinguishable from one another?_

_But perhaps you awoke alone and as you expected to be. Never-mind, my love. Let it be a comfort to know that I dream of being near you always._

_Forever yr.  
Alexander_

Laurens does not acknowledge these tokens of affection, confessions of desire. When he writes, he is informative, perfectly friendly, carefully affectionate. He sends his love to Hamilton—to everyone. It is a letter like any they exchanged when separated in the past. Hamilton has to believe that he's making progress, though. If not, surely Laurens would write to tell him off, or not write him at all. He could write to anyone else in camp and receive only news and perfunctory salutations. He must write to Alexander because he wants to receive his replies.

He must.

It cannot be said, however, that Laurens writes often. In fact, after a single letter, written shortly after his arrival in the South, there is nothing. Hamilton tries to be understanding. Laurens has a wound to recover from, a recruitment effort to champion, a seat in the House to hold, battles to be fought and won. But after two months of no word from Laurens at all, Hamilton’s anxiety catches his temper alight and he stews for weeks, irritable until a new missive from the south appears in his hand. Is Laurens alive or dead? Did Hamilton push him too far? Has he resolved to not write at all?

When a letter finally arrives in early September, the relief punctures his anger. 

He writes:

_I acknowledge but one letter from you, since you left us, of the 14th of July which just arrived in time to appease a violent conflict between my friendship and my pride. I have written you five or six letters since you left Philadelphia and I should have written you more had you made proper return. But like a jealous lover, when I thought you slighted my caresses, my affection was alarmed and my vanity piqued. I had almost resolved to lavish no more of them upon you and to reject you as an inconstant and an ungrateful. But you have now disarmed my resentment and by a single mark of attention made up the quarrel…_

In November, Washington’s camp moves to New Jersey. The weather is hideous, all ice and inhumane cold. Later that month, Laurens sails to Philadelphia to plead before the Continental Congress for reinforcements on the southern front. Finding himself unheard, he rides for Charleston again only two weeks later. Even if there was time for them to meet, the weather would have prevented it. 

Laurens’s letters arrive in December—two in a single week!—and, in a fit of passion, Hamilton applies for leave to go south and join him. It is too deeply, impossibly unfair that they came so close to each other and yet were held apart. The invisible thread on his hand seems fit to cut off the flow of blood, he feels it grow numb as Washington tells him that, of course, he has earned his leave many times over and may take it, but then dangles the possibility of receiving his own command, if only he stays in the north.

Glory or Laurens? Prestige or love? If only Laurens showed any sign of acknowledging Hamilton’s sincerity or admitting the strength of his own feelings, Hamilton's decision would be unquestionable. As it is, he spends three days agonizing over it.

In the end, just after Christmas, he announces his intent to stay in New Jersey. Better to die in a blaze of glory than pine away uselessly at his friend’s side. He can do that just as well from his desk.

He responds to Laurens’s last letter and writes of his aborted attempt to join him. The words do not escape from his hands without being infected by a bitterness that has begun to pervade his daily life. It threatens to make him permanently unpleasant and, perhaps, even unfit for the command he wants so badly. It threatens to be an endlessly perpetuating cycle.

Eliza changes all that. 

A fortnight after the first of the year, Hamilton is honored with an invitation to a fete held at the Morristown residence of General Schuyler’s sister. The following Saturday evening sees him in conversation with the General’s lovely daughter, Elizabeth. Still in self-perpetuated agony at being denied a chance to see his Laurens, Eliza’s immediate and obvious interest in him is intoxicating.

He falls for her, head over heels, as he has only once before. 

Beautiful, she may not be, but she’s perfect in every other way: kind and quick enough to be good company. And she likes him. She finds him clever and interesting. She thinks his complete and utter inability to shut up for any length of time is charming. She returns his rambling letters with long, sweet messages of her own. And she’s well-connected. Hamilton is no fool. He receives her father’s blessing. 

And he writes:

_Do you recall when I wrote you, just newly arrived in Charles town, and gave you my specifications for a wife? A girl so perfect she could not exist? Do you recall my clumsy attempt to inspire jealousy in you, that you may better come to realize how our true feelings for each other align?_

_I have met her, John. Here in New Jersey, I have met the most extraordinary girl. You will not believe it, but she finds me charming. You will believe that she finds me handsome. She is a handsome woman herself, although I would not as far as to call her a great beauty. Her company is unparalleled. I have asked for her hand._

_I am besotted by her. I am in love. Are you jealous now? I must admit that it would be misplaced. The love I have for her in no way replaces the love I have for you. Though I always felt that I was cold save in the places that your regard warmed me, I am surprised to find that there is space enough in my heart for my Eliza and my John, both. Separate always, but equal in my affections._

_We are to be married before the end of the year. But this necessitates the most painful of admissions I could ever make to you. You have me at my most honest now, John, so I must warn you that you may not wish to know what I am about to reveal. Though I would not blame you for not reading on, I hope you will. It would give me some comfort to know that, finally, there are no secrets between us._

_Pray, if you read, be gentle in your thoughts. Know that I was never in thrall to delusion. It was never the less painful for that. I will tell you:_

_If, when we met, you were unencumbered by the ties of a wife and daughter on the continent, if the fabric of society had any give, if the law had any leeway to grant—you would have woken of a morning not long past to find me at your side, a plea on my lips for you to keep me for eternity, and for me to keep you just the same. I am not so proud, my love. In the dark of night, when I miss you the most, I see a vision of us: matching silver on our hands. I know I could have been a good husband to you in another life. You would have given me a happiness greater than I, for my sins, have any right to enjoy. Perhaps it is for the best._

_If you wish to forget this, I will not blame you. But be kind when you see me next. Now you know the strength of my affection for you—though you may not return it, certainly you give me little enough cause for hope—you may better understand the decisions I make to move on._

_Yrs always.  
Alexander_

He doesn’t send it. 

He stares at it for a long time. It sits on his desk innocently. One piece of paper, front and back. His most closely treasured secret.

He folds it, seals it with wax, and buries it at the bottom of his trunk.

Laurens writes in reply to his letter of early January, more quickly than is his wont, to express dismay both over the fact that Hamilton is unable to join him, and—more crucially—that Hamilton is nursing an apparent desire to get killed on the field of battle post-haste.

_Do you remember: when I was injured upon first arriving here, you threatened my life most severely if I were to give into fever or infection? Now, take my advice wisely, my dear boy: if you get yourself killed I will be obliged to follow suit, that I may better chastise you for your stupidity and selfishness in attempting to leave me alone, without my friend._

_Yours ever.  
John Laurens_

Hamilton feels a tiny spark of renewed hope. Perhaps this short entreaty for his well-being is Laurens’s attempt at a love letter in his own, reserved way.

It is only days later when another letter from Laurens arrives, a more complete one replete with frightening news of the violence of the southern struggle and his latest attempts at trying to push through reforms. Hamilton responds. He writes:

_I have received lately two letters from you, the last dated the 24th of February and am much obliged to you for the detail you give me. I hope your expectations may not be disappointed, though I confess to you my fears are very much up about your situation…_

And later that evening, on a clean piece of paper, he writes:

_I regret having given you any cause for alarm. You are familiar with my tempers and I dare say you will not be surprised to learn that my declaration of intent for a swift and brilliant exit from this life was borne more of supreme frustration than anything else. But you, on the other hand, mustn’t even consider suicide in the event of my death, spectacular or otherwise. You have cleverly taken the upper hand from me here, as I can hardly threaten you with a fate worse than you have already imagined for yourself, but know that there could be no greater pain for me than the loss of you, save for the knowledge that I was the cause of it._

_Has it been only a year since I watched you ride away? I would swear it has been lifetimes. Every second you are not by my side compounds an ache I could not conceive of in my life before. Although I allowed my intentions to be altered this time, I fear I cannot hold out for glory much longer. This winter, in the worst agonies of my separation from you, I allowed myself to believe you faltered in your regard for me. Thus, these last few months I have been remiss in not conveying you to the continuous depth of my affections. Trust me when I say that I love you now as I loved you when you left. If I concentrate I can remember perfectly the night on which I confessed to you, can conjure your phantom touch. Do you believe me better now than you did then? I pray so. John, it is all I can do to go on without you._

Once again, he hears nothing for months. Once again, his anxiety swells, although now he has Eliza’s sweet words to soothe him. Truly, he would be unable to go on without her. And yet, he does think of Laurens. And when he does it is to regret every secret kept, especially his engagement. He wonders, too, if perhaps this time Laurens _is_ avoiding him. If maybe he misread the signals and finally scared him away for good.

So when Ternant hands over Laurens’s letter from his Pennsylvanian detention, Hamilton is torn between relief and feeling like a perfect ass. Imagine: indulging in paranoia when his Laurens was bravely fighting for his honorable cause and being captured, imprisoned!

He writes straight away. Conveys his condolences. He confesses his engagement. He writes:

_Have you not heard that I am on the point of becoming a benedict? I confess my sins. I am guilty. Next fall completes my doom. I give up my liberty to Miss Schuyler. She is a good hearted girl who I am sure will never play the termagant; though not a genius she has good sense enough to be agreeable, and though not a beauty, she has fine black eyes—is rather handsome and has every other requisite of the exterior to make a lover happy. And believe me, I am lover in earnest, though I do not speak of the perfections of my Mistress in the enthusiasm of Chivalry…_

Does he intend it to spark jealously? Perhaps.

He sends the letter. He hastens to the command tent. And only a day later he writes again: 

_Have received permission to visit the imprisoned on a mission of compassion. Send details of your lodging at once, else I will be obliged to sing your name through the public houses of Philadelphia in service of ferreting you out._

_As always, yr.  
A. Hamilton_


	2. Chapter 2

Laurens’s prison is a refreshing change of scenery from the sweltering misery of an army camp in the high summer. Not that Philadelphia has not mastered the mid-Atlantic trick of being both scaldingly hot and damp, but it benefits immensely from its conspicuous lack of sweaty, unwashed men and animals living and dying in close quarters.

And, of course, it has Laurens.

Hamilton is coursing with nerves as he hands his horse off to a stable boy, bag over his shoulder, and makes the short walk into Germantown where, according to Ternant, the captured continental officers are being boarded for the duration of their parole. It’s seems odd to be walking through peaceful streets when only three years ago he was by Washington’s side as their men suffered a bloody defeat on the very same ground.

But it’s not a place of misery anymore. Now, for him, it is a place of hope.

Ternant did not recall the name of the house where Laurens is billeted. His best description was “a large stone house on Germantown Avenue,” which naturally covers some dozen or more buildings. With a sigh Hamilton resolves himself to the necessity of knocking on every door until he finds the right one.

He doesn’t even make it to the threshold of the first before— 

“Hamilton?” 

Time slows down as he turns his head toward the sound of a voice that’s been echoing in his head for more than a year, painfully fainter every time, now whole and real and…

Laurens. Standing at the corner of the road, some yards away from him, arms crossed over his chest, wearing an expression that tells of a struggle between amusement and confusion. 

“John!” It is all Hamilton can do to maintain his composure in this public setting, digging his nails into his palms to prevent himself from running at Laurens and squeezing the breath out of him. Laurens approaches at a reasonable pace, surely, but to Hamilton it feels like he’s being dragged through molasses.

“Do you know,” Laurens says, once he’s only a few, tantalizing feet away, “that if you had arrived only an hour earlier you would have caught me completely unaware? I would ask how your journey has been, but to nearly beat your last letter to me, Hamilton—I can only assume your horse is on the verge of death.” He stops and pulls a folded letter out of his pocket, waves it in Hamilton’s direction.

“I wrote a week ago,” Hamilton protests. Why has Laurens stopped too far away to touch? Is this some kind of hideous dream-turned-nightmare? “I cannot be faulted for the inefficiency of our couriers.”

“Couriers are only human. This confirms my suspicion that you are something else entirely.”

Finally, finally, he reaches out his hand. Hamilton takes the step forward necessary to grab it. _Finally._ His hand is more calloused than it had been before he left, more scarred. But his grip is strong and he holds Hamilton’s gaze just as firmly, warm, familiar, loved eyes that leave Hamilton feeling locked into place. 

When the handshake finally ends, their fingers brush and Hamilton feels the thrill of it all up his arm. Laurens smiles and ducks his head. “I’m sure you’re tired. If you wish to get settled in your lodgings and call upon me later, I understand.”

“No,” Hamilton breathes. Having just found Laurens again there isn’t a chance in Hell that he’s going to let him out of his sight before he’s forced to. “I can deal with that later. Unless it would be an imposition?”

“Your company is never an imposition, my friend.” That smile again. God, that smile. It turns out that Hamilton’s subconscious wasn’t even half up to the job of recreating it. “I’m just down the road, come along.”

Laurens’s room is on the top floor of a large, stone house on Germantown Avenue. It’s nicely appointed, decently sized with low ceilings and windows that face the back garden. There’s a desk and an armoire and a large bed, Laurens’s trunk on the floor at its foot, a flowery quilt folded on top. Laurens holds the door open for him and then closes it behind them, pulls a key from his pocket and twists it in the lock.

“They allow you to keys to your own cell?” Hamilton asks, surprised.

“They see me as a fellow gentleman,” Laurens explains, voice wry. “And a gentleman would never inconvenience his captors.”

“You have not, I assume?”

“I am not immediately interested in getting shot again, so no. I fear I am obliged to live up to their high expectations for my conduct.” Laurens shrugs out of his coat and hangs it on a peg behind the door. He gestures to Hamilton’s own road-dusty jacket, and Hamilton gratefully sheds it and passes it over. The room feels immediately cooler without the second layer of heavy fabric.

It warms up again when he refocuses on Laurens. In only his shirt sleeves and waistcoat, he looks vulnerable. It was winter when he left, when undressing at all was done reluctantly and only in cases of extreme need. Hamilton hasn’t seen him without a coat in, it dawns on him, almost two years. He looks thin. Hamilton tells him as much.

“You are in absolutely no position to remark upon anyone else’s health, Hamilton,” Laurens counters, eyebrow raised, leaning back against the wall. “If you have been eating something other than air since I saw you last, I would be amazed to hear it.”

“I could easily have you in a fight,” Hamilton insists, and is gratified to see a reactionary flush in Laurens’s cheeks.

“I don’t imagine.”

“I’ll prove it.” He stalks across the room, gets as close to Laurens as he dares, nearly toe-to-toe. “Come on. Try me.”

Laurens, though regrettably less flustered than Hamilton had hoped, does not disappoint him. “I know a better way,” he says, and then Hamilton finds himself pulled into a hug.

Jesus. He’d known he’d needed it, but he hadn’t truly known how much. Not until this moment. Laurens’s arms are around him, large hands on his back, holding him close with a strength that truly is belied by his slight frame. Laurens’s head is tucked over his shoulder, breath warm against his neck. Laurens’s body is pressed against his, a warm, solid line of heat and life and… God, just—John.

Hamilton crushes him back, not for the competition but for the need of it. To convince himself it’s real. To prove to John that everything he wrote, and more, is true. “I missed you,” he whispers, and he feels John shudder and—though it seems impossible—hold him even tighter.

“And I, you.” John murmurs, right against his ear. It’s almost too much. Almost. “I’ve no idea how I coped without you, Alexander.” Almost.

“I fear I didn’t,” he confesses. “It was harder than I ever imagined to be without you.”

Something changes in John’s posture. He stiffens, and all of a sudden the contact seems to be too much for him. His hands snap away, his shoulders are set back. He takes a half-step back and hits the wall. They part. Confused, Alexander gives him space, though hands ache again already.

“At least you were not alone.” Laurens says, not meeting his eye. “I am sure Miss Schuyler’s company has been a great relief to your spirit this last year.”

Oh. His plan to inspire jealousy has come home to roost. In a way, this is a victory, But so soon? At such an unwelcome time?

“She does indeed have a way of soothing my dark moods,” he allows carefully. “I am lucky to have found her.”

“I am remiss in delaying an offering of congratulations,” Laurens says, tone neutral but his expression totally blank, locked in. “I’m sure you will be pleased with the benefits of married bliss.”

Hamilton raises an eyebrow at him. The fight is inevitable now. All he can do is to try and use it to his advantage. “You have nothing to fear from her.”

“I do not fear her.” Laurens shuffles, mouth in a tight line. “I don’t know where you get that idea.”

“Her claim on my heart is not greater than your own, if that is your concern.”

His cheeks flush again. “I’ve said no such thing.”

“Your resentment is obvious.”

“It is not. Do not attempt to assign me emotions.”

“I assure you that she does not merit your jealousy. I will do so again. She is a wonderful girl. She will support me without question. Our match is perfect in form and function. But she will not usurp you.”

“I am sure that you will be very happy together.”

“If you want me to regret telling you of her, you will have to learn to live with disappointment.”

“I don’t—!” Laurens swallows heavily, takes a deep breath. “I apologize. I do not mean to lose my temper.” Finally he makes eye contact. “I do not resent you for your attachment to her. I always expected you to find a wife. But remember that I learned of this very recently,” he gestures to a familiar letter, lying open on the desk, “and haven’t quite had the time to process it.”

Hamilton’s heart leaps. That is an admission if he’s ever heard one. Laurens is jealous.

“I apologize,” he offers. “I had not considered that.”

Laurens smiles brittlely at him. “I _am_ happy for you.”

“I believe you.” He doesn’t. “Do you believe me when I tell you that she has not replaced you in my heart?”

“Hamilton…” he sounds exhausted.

“Tell me, truly. Because if you do not I will have to set about convincing you at once.” He means it to be playful, even flirtatious, but Laurens doesn’t appear to take it that way.

He sighs. “I do not know what to think. But I do not know that it matters, in any case.”

“Of course it matters!” Before he can stop himself, Hamilton has reached out and grabbed Laurens’s hand between his own. If he could just _convince him_. “You know how I feel about you. What I would do if you would just believe me. I never wrote you anything but a word of truth, John.”

Laurens’s mood darkens almost instantly. Shockingly quick. Hamilton is so taken aback by the change in his expression that he barely registers Laurens yanking his hand out of Hamilton’s hold.

“Those truths you claim to have written,” John snaps, “gave me cause for worry. You were indiscreet, Hamilton.”

“Indiscreet?” Oh, so this is to be a _different_ argument. There’s no better way to rile Hamilton’s temper than to insinuate that he is unsophisticated. _Indiscreet…_

Laurens continues: “How is it that you are the smartest man in every room you enter and yet you cannot apply the logic you so ruthlessly use against everyone else to your own actions? You are too brilliant to be so rash!”

“ _Rash?!_ ”

“Did you never consider the consequences of other men reading your words? What they would think? You know the punishment for the things you implied, Hamilton. They could see you hanged!”

“I know you would never betray my confidence. My complement in every way, John—you are _discreet_.” Is it an insult or plea? He’s not sure himself.

“Jesus wept, Alexander!” Hamilton is taken aback once again by the anger. Although it cannot be said that Laurens is a man with a temper hard to spark, his wrath has never, not once, been turned on Hamilton in earnest. 

“John—”

“No, shut up. You are passionate but you cannot let passion over-rule your sense! Imagine if your letters had been lost or misdirected on the long trip to Charleston. Imagine if another officer at camp opened them? Imagine if I died on the field and they collected my personal effects, sent them to my father. He would have you executed before he had me buried.”

Hamilton, during arguments normally flush with the excitement of a battle, is deathly pale now. Laurens is pacing the short width of the room, agitated.

“Your unwillingness to consider the consequences of your actions may prove a lethal flaw!”

“If you died I would gladly accept your father’s command for me to follow shortly behind.”

“Don’t you dare say that,” Laurens hisses, halting in his tracks.

But Hamilton’s got the thread of it now. He squares his shoulders. “I will not lie to you, John. Every letter I sent you was in the spirit of honesty. Every word I wrote you was sincere, even if it was _indiscreet._ It was worth it, whatever the cost was to me.”

“And what of the cost to _me_? If you’d died, Alexander…” He doesn’t go on, seemingly unable to speak it. His whole frame sinks, like the wind has gone out of his sails. Hamilton wants nothing more in that moment than to hold him, but…

“I know. I am sorry. I wanted you to know where my priorities lay, and…” he sucks in a halting breath, unable to believe what he is about to do. “I want to show you something. It will explain.”

He turns to his pack and shifts the contents around until he finds what he needs. A letter, sealed with wax. Laurens’s name on the front. Hamilton holds it out to him. “Open it,” he says.

“Hamilton—”

“Read it. Please.” He sinks into the desk chair. “I can wait.”

Laurens turns it over and over in his hands, examining his name, the waxy red seal. He glances up at Hamilton, who hasn’t the energy left to say anything more than “please,” once again.

He runs his finger over the imprints in the wax. He slips his finger under the seal. He breaks it. Hamilton lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

Laurens unfolds the paper. He reads.

After a few moments he lowers himself shakily to the bed. After a few moments more, his eyes dart up, snagging Hamilton’s gaze. He chews his lip, he reads again.

There’s no sound in the room, not even a breath until John lets out a sudden, almost tortured, gasp, and his eyes are on Alexander’s once again. Tears seem to have sprung from nowhere. Against the bedspread, his left hand flexes as though it hurts.

“What…?” he asks, and his voice is so broken that Alexander can do nothing but go to him. He makes it three steps away from the chair before falling to his knees at John’s feet.

“I mean it,” he says, and he wants to touch but feels like he can’t, so he digs his fingertips into his thighs. The pain isn’t as centering as he’d hoped.

“You ca—”

“ _Don’t_ tell me that I cannot, John,” he rasps, suddenly tired of it. Tired of months, of years spent on this war of love. “I can. I do. I would have. In a heartbeat.”

John buries his face in his hands, the letter fluttering to the floor. Alexander picks it up and folds it carefully, sets it back on the bed beside him, being careful not to touch.

“I have told you everything now.”

“Everything,” John repeats.

“You have all of me. I only want one thing in return.”

John’s voice is miserable. “And what is that?”

“Tell me what you would have said.”

“What?” He looks up at Alexander, eyes red.

“If I had done what I described. If I came to you and begged. What answer would you have given me?”

“Alexander…”

“I swear I will not hold it against you. I only want to hear the truth, whatever it may be.”

“I… I cannot."

“You can. Tell me ‘yes’ or ‘no,’ and I swear I will leave you alone. I will not ask again. We can forget the entire thing.” Alexander takes a shaky, miserable breath. “You cannot ask me to stop loving you. I cannot and I will not. But I will pretend if it will give you peace. Above all what I want is to have you by my side, as my friend.”

But John doesn’t say ‘yes,’ and he doesn’t say ‘no.’ He stares at Alexander, eyes racing over his face, his hair, his hands folded in his lap. He stares, and his mouth moves soundlessly, like he’s tracing his thoughts.

And then, he does speak. He says:

“Stand.”

“What?” 

“Stand up.”

“John? What?”

“Stand up, Alexander.” And then John is pushing gently on his shoulder, enough to knock him off balance and force him to brace himself against the floor. Fine, he can take a hint. It hurts. It stings that this is how John has chosen to reject him, by shoving him away. But fine. He said he would accept whatever answer he was given, and this is it.

Tears on his cheeks, Alexander stands. He nods to John, sitting on the bed still and staring up at him with equally tear-stained eyes. He turns to walk away. He will collect his bag. He will go back to the inn and ask for room. He will stay the night. Maybe in the morning John will have forgiven him enough for them to spend time as friends. But for now he needs to get away and nurse his heartbreak in private.

But he doesn’t walk away.

He’s barely turned his shoulders when John’s hand is clamped on his arm and John’s body is suddenly in his space, standing, and not only that, but standing close, his mouth set and expression intense.

Alexander doesn’t have time to ask what’s happening before there’s a warm hand on his hip and another on the nape of his neck, and nothing is connecting in his brain until John’s lips touch his.

He doesn’t breathe. Doesn’t move a muscle. He just stands there, held in place by John’s shaking hands. He’s utterly frozen until John starts to draw back, the heat of his lips leaving, his hands jumping off Alexander’s body like they got there against his will. And when John draws away all Alexander can think is that he can’t let him go. Not after everything they’ve gone through, everything he’s done.

“No,” he breathes, “no,” and then it’s _his_ hands against _John’s_ skin, reaching out, pulling him forward, back in. Taking a second kiss.

John goes easily, shockingly easily, gasps into it.

They kiss. They breathe. Alexander pulls back this time, not too far, just wanting to look at him, but he doesn’t get the chance. John leans with him, chases his lips, catches them. Alexander feels his entire body light up, needy now and knowing that he can have what he wants. It’s there. John…

“Alexander…” It’s intoxicating to be wanted. And to be wanted by _John_ …it’s unbelievable. He knows now, he’s learning what it’s like to have John so close. To be able to kiss him. To be able to _touch_ him. His hands can’t keep still, sliding from John’s waist to his back, to his neck, touching his hair, trying to find the tie, wanting to get the damn thing out, wanting to run his fingers through his hair. Christ. 

John’s hands are wandering, too. Now cupping his jaw, now perched on his shoulders, now sliding down his chest, pausing over his heart. Halting breaths. Alexander takes a chance and kisses his jaw, then his throat, hearing him gasp. 

“You look like you’re about to collapse,” he whispers, before leaning back in for another kiss.

John makes a noise against his lips that is probably a denial.

“You do, my love. You’re shaking. Perhaps you should lie down,” Alexander offers, carefully, between further kisses given and received. He knows full well that this could backfire. For all that John is pliant and eager for him now, Alexander doesn’t know what’s going on in his head. Any one little thing might trigger him back into a defensive position. And what he’s suggesting…it’s not a little thing.

And sure enough, John pauses, pulling back from a kiss. Pulling slightly away. Alexander’s heart takes a hit and prepares to sink.

John’s eye search his face. God help him, Alexander can’t help but admire the picture he makes: eyes dark, cheeks flushed, lips swollen and bitten red. If this is where it all goes wrong, at least he will have this image forever.

“You’ll lie down with me?” He asks, finally. And it’s so far off what Alexander was expecting that he gapes for a second, caught in a rare moment of speechlessness.

And then his words return to him. “Yes!” he breathes, “John. Of course. Here—” and he sinks to the bed himself, taking John’s hand and tugging gently, “come here.” And John goes. 

_I would shield you from the light,_ Alexander wrote once. _I would keep you warm. If you would allow me, Laurens, there is very little I would not do for you._

He keeps his promise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final chapter will be a Coda.


	3. Coda

_To Lieutenant Colonel John Laurens,_

_You will be pleased that I have taken your advice to heart and am stopped overnight at an inn midway to camp. While my muscles, much overworked from my time in Philadelphia, and only more abused by the ride, appreciate the break, I fear I chose my resting point too hastily. The amenities are lacking, and I write from the floor—the boards are the only surface flat enough to allow the forming of comprehensible script._

_I confess I was sorely tempted, in fact, to write this letter from your own desk, then secret it somewhere about your room; but you are not so sound a sleeper and, besides, I worried that perhaps you might not find it at all, not being of suspicious enough a mind to suspect me of such a thing. Although perhaps you did? Perhaps you have spent the hours since I left carefully peering into every vessel and drawer and shifting the furniture. The idea amuses me, so I shall consider it added to the historical record._

_You will be doubly pleased that I have taken your advice on another count, that is to say: in regard to the general accessibility of our correspondence. Please take this letter as a sterling example of how amenable I am to following rules once you set them out. As I said when we discussed the matter before my departure, I am eager to accommodate if only you will communicate with me clearly._

_That is about as much as I can say for now. I write this with ink, and on paper, begged from the innkeeper who appeared, I must say, much suspicious of my motives for doing so. The quantity is little and the quality is poor. My elbow, in addition, smarts from being pressed into the floorboards in the effort. See how I battle against the odds for you!_

_In any case, I will now say Adieu. I hope, most dearly, that we shall meet again soon, whether you are rightly and quickly freed or whether I must return to visit you in your imprisonment. Truly, it would not be an imposition to do so, although I hate to see you caged. Parting from you today was no less painful than I expected, and I am soothed only by the knowledge that I know now you are sure of me, your_

_A. Ham._

_My hat met a sudden and untimely death along the road just on the near side of the New Jersey line. Blown from my head it landed in front of the horse and spooked her badly. By the time I had her calmed the article in question was joined with the mud and much misshapen. I know your taste to be without peer, and if you have a tailor in Philadelphia that might quickly and neatly fix me a replacement, I would be deeply indebted to you both, and repayment of course would be on your terms._

—————

_To Lieutenant Colonel Alexander Hamilton_

_Your letter, tho dated the 19th, did not reach me til yesterday… I suppose we may complain about the speed of the army couriers til we turn blue in the face, but Franklin’s “postal service” surely is no quicker on her feet._

_Let me say, in the first place, that I did not look about my room for evidence of a hidden letter, so you may revise your history and forfeit any gloating your have heretofore indulged in. Let me say, in the second place, that I am grateful, as always, for our friendship and your attentions thereupon, although I dare say that you could have waited until you made camp to write. Nevertheless, thank you._

_Things are much the same here. You will forgive me if I have little to write. There is no word yet as to when we will be released, and I spend my days reading or indulging in fantasy, which is a shameful not least in the time I devote to it. I suspect you will commiserate with me, however. Our thoughts have proven to wander down similar paths in times like these. Your visit was a welcome one, my dear boy, and did me much good. Though I am once again at loose ends, my mind and soul are much settled by the reassurance I have received of your regard._

_In the hopes that we will meet again soon under more favorable skies, yours ever,  
John Laurens_

_I communicated your tale of sartorial woe to C. Edmunds, who has been longer in Philadelphia, and only yesterday received word that he “has executed Hamilton’s commission by arranging for a tailor to make a hat for him.” I will send the article along directly._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hamilton's letter is entirely my own invention. Laurens's first sentence and the quote from the postscript are both from historical record--likely from the same letter, although the transcription is not available online.

**Author's Note:**

> Infelicities of incidence or speech are entirely my own EXCEPT where they are Hamilton's or Laurens's. Excerpts that end in ellipses are quoted from their surviving letters.
> 
> If you read this multiple times and you notice that there are changes in the text: I admit, I am a serial reviser. I will probably forever be going back into this and making edits as things occur to me. The plot is safe, but sentence-level is fair game.


End file.
